The Devil in Amber (21 page)

He seemed in no mood to let me pass.

‘Just going for a stroll,’ I said airily.

The po-faced fellow shook his head. ‘I don’t think the Professor would like that, sir.’ His accent was as regulation as his regulation American suit. ‘We have your welfare at heart.’

‘My welfare? Look here, you’re supposed to be our guards not our gaolers.’

‘Of course, sir. And that’s why it wouldn’t be wise to let you go
wandering off. Surely you see that?’ He flashed me his dazzling pearly whites.

I looked him up and down. Definitely not the type to be won over by friendly persuasion, I decided. Instead I nipped back through the doorway. ‘My dear chap, of course! Quite understand. Night night.’

Closing the door behind me, I leaned back against the woodwork and frowned. No doubt Reiss-Mueller had the best of intentions but I’ve never liked being fenced in, as you may have noticed, and instantly made the decision to break free of my friendly confinement. Unfinished business, as I said.

Creeping softly back up the stairs I emerged onto the landing and made my way to a small sash window. Peering out, I saw Delilah in the snow-blanketed garden, chopping wood for the stove. A short distance away, arms neatly folded, sat the second of the Professor’s Metropolitan Museum pals, his hat pulled down over his no doubt frost-nipped ears. I moved swiftly to the other end of the landing, where there was an identical window. This one looked out onto a neglected-looking roadway, and scrambling at the insecure lock, I heaved it open and slipped through onto the slippery drainpipe.

In moments, I had shinned down and landed with a crump in a thick drift. Keeping low, I crept along a hedgerow bordering that side of the cottage and was soon out onto the roadway and free.

The village of Lit-de-Diable was only marginally Swiss–as I knew to my cost–and had been fought over by various factions for centuries. It was little more than a couple of streets of quaintly cramped houses, inns and a pretty, onion-spired church. As a result, it took me only minutes to move through it towards the airstrip and across the un-patrolled border into France. I could have walked the way blindfolded.

Just past the airstrip where our plane was still parked, an area of
woodland turned into a neat avenue of poplars. This in turn led, after some five hundred yards, to a small stone memorial that was quite lovely and glowing like coral in the pinkish light of evening.

My boots crunched through the drifts as I made my way towards it, then I paused, gaze averted, letting the memories wash over me.

I circled the memorial, the names standing out clearly.

PTE JOHN ROPER
(small, keen, delightful),
PTE SAMUEL FORTUNE
(gloomy, Welsh, loyal to a fault),
SGT JEREMIAH FORRESTER
(good man in a tight spot),
PTE INNES COPELY
(no, didn’t remember him)…

The next face of the stonework ran on in the same fashion, the inscribed names picked out by the fading light of the setting sun.
CAPTAIN WILLIAM BUNSEN
…
PTE DAVID HENDRIX

In all those years, I’d somehow never managed to make the short journey. I could have come at any time but now, in the teeth of this strange adventure, fate had conspired to return me to that little place on the Franco-Swiss border.

LT HAROLD LATIMER
(ill-tempered, drank),
SGT GABRIEL BOOTHE
(Yorkshireman, prim, humourless),
PTE PETER HOLLIS
(a real smasher. Made good grub)…

The names began to blur as I moved round the snow-covered stone. And then I saw it. The last simple inscription amongst all the others.

PTE CHARLES JACKPOT

I plunged my hands into the deep pockets of the flying coat and wished I had a cigarette. Charlie was always good for a gasper. I would’ve liked to have smoked one for him at that moment.

There was no body under the French turf, of course. Like so many others, the young man’s corpse had never been recovered. He was listed as missing. Forever. And we’d been so close to the Swiss border and freedom…

There’d been many an adventure since we’d first met in that bizarre brothel in old Naples but, perhaps, none so bold and terrifying as the mission in ’17 that finally parted us.

‘A neat avenue of poplars led to a small stone memorial.’

I briefly touched my fingers to the cold stone, then turned on my heel.

Plunging my numbed hands into my trouser pockets, I suddenly panicked. The Prayer was gone! Oh Lor!

Taking to my heels, I pelted towards the airstrip. As Reiss-Mueller had promised, the pilot of our ’plane was sitting on a low wall, awaiting our instruction. He held up a hand in greeting, then slid the same hand into his jacket and pulled out a pistol.

I stopped dead.

The pilot reached up and hauled off his goggles and flying helmet in one smooth movement, revealing a shock of blond hair and a very bruised and broken nose.

‘Don’t say a word,’ said Percy Flarge, between gritted teeth. ‘Just come with me.’

I
followed meekly but my mind was afire. It was imperative I get away from Flarge and retrieve the fragment of the Jerusalem Prayer! Everything else–my life, Aggie’s safety–was mere beer and skittles in comparison. And I would destroy the cursed thing if it meant saving the world from eternal darkness.

I crossed without fuss towards the aeroplane, which was now shining like a toy in the last beams of the purple sun. The cabin door was open and Flarge prodded at my side until I clambered inside.

‘Don’t gloat,’ I muttered. ‘I can bear anything if you don’t gloat.’

‘Shut up,’ snapped Flarge.

I flopped down into my old seat, gaze flickering towards the door. Could I overcome him and get back to the cottage? ‘Neat trick, that,’ I murmured with faux nonchalance. ‘Substituting yourself for the pilot. How did you cotton on to us?’

Flarge seemed anxious, his usual smug smile replaced by a sort of blankness. ‘You’re joking, aren’t you?’ he scoffed. ‘The Metropolitan
Museum is wide open. We know about almost everything they do. Standing joke at the RA.’

I refrained from mentioning that I didn’t even know of the Metropolitan Museum’s espionage credentials. Dear me, I
was
getting too old for this lark.

Flarge waved the gun about. ‘What we’ve certainly known for a long time is that chap Reiss-Mueller’s as leaky as a sieve. Whatever discretion he once possessed has flown out of the window. He asks questions a bit too loudly these days and people listen. Didn’t take too much to penetrate his plans. I reckon the Met want the Jerusalem Prayer for themselves.’

Something about Flarge’s tone disquieted me and thoughts of immediate flight subsided. ‘There’s something wrong, isn’t there, Percy?’

Flarge scowled. ‘Yes, there’s something wrong! There’s something bloody wrong! You smash my face in, escape capture, escape again, kill my Domestic and then slice his blasted hand off!’

I shook my head. ‘No. Something else. By now you should be thumping me and swearing seven kinds of vengeance for all I’ve put you through.’

‘I should!’ he rasped. ‘I know I want to. Ever since I joined the RA I’ve had your ruddy name and reputation rubbed in my face. I thought I’d never get one up on you. But then I saw a little chink. Just whispers from on high. Scribbled notes from no one in particular telling me to shadow you because you weren’t up to it any more.’

I would normally have bristled at this but bristling didn’t seem called for. Something interesting was up. Instead I shrugged. ‘You saved my life back in that church tower. I’m very grateful. But why the hell are you persecuting me? Because I found that blasted silk rag and you didn’t?’

‘I knew it was there!’ protested Flarge. ‘I saw it. But my orders…my orders didn’t mention it. I was to keep an eye on you and on no account let you get hurt.’

‘What?’

Flarge put his foot up on the chair in front and chewed his lip. ‘Look here, Box. I was thrilled when I got the tip-off to come to that flea-bitten hotel and I found you in bed with the corpse. I was even more thrilled when the Academy told me that normal rules didn’t apply. That the Domestics would not be called, and that you would have to face the full rigour of the law. It was perfect. Lucifer Box reduced to this! Caught with his trousers down in a sodomitic bloodbath. In
America
! As I say, perfect.’ He heaved a sigh and let the barrel of the pistol droop slightly. ‘Too perfect.’

Flarge cleared his throat and stared into space. ‘I know what you think of me and I dare say you’re right. I’ve admired you, resented you, wanted to see you utterly smashed so that I might advance but one thing I’ll never do. I’ll never see you go down for something you didn’t do. I may be a swine but I’m not a traitor.’

With which remarkable statement, he took out a small and ancient-looking book and tipped out a folded piece of foolscap that lay within.

I read it over and then read it again. My skin grew clammy and I felt sick to my stomach. ‘Where did you get this?’ I managed at last, my voice reduced to a croaking whisper.

‘It was inside Daley’s coat,’ said Flarge. ‘Inside this book. I found it when you escaped from the train. Looks like the draft of a cryptogram. Makes things pretty clear, what?’

That it did. The thing, scrawled in Daley’s untidy hand and annotated with various jottings showing where words would be substituted in a cryptogram, ran this way:

‘Planted the rag, as requested. Box took the bait. Took him down in the drugstore and interrogated Volatile re: Lamb. Subject died during process. What should I do?’

I looked up. ‘Daley set up that little charade in the hotel so that I’d carry the can?’

Flarge nodded. ‘There’s more. A reply.’

He tossed over an actual cryptogram on thin yellow paper with Daley’s patient decoding in pencil beneath.

‘Box will find the Lamb for us. He’s still the best we have. He must have the Prayer. And Banebdjed shall rise!…’

Clearly, then, ‘Twice’ Daley and not Flarge was in league with Mons–but who else had betrayed us and fallen in with the fascist’s diabolical schemes?

One thing I still failed to understand. The cryptogram reply had said ‘Box must have the Prayer’. But didn’t they already know that, having given Daley orders to plant it on Hubbard’s body?

‘And all this time I thought it was you,’ I muttered.

‘What?’

‘This will sound crazy—’ I began carefully, but Flarge held up his hand and contemplated his pistol.

‘I know,’ he said flatly.

‘Hmm?’

Flarge scratched at his flaxen hair. ‘All the Satanism stuff. Efforts were made to initiate me. All dark rooms and hooded robes. Never found out who was at the root of it. They were very subtle at first. Told me there were ways a chap like me might gain advancement, not just in the Royal Academy but in life. There’s a route to true power, they said. Power over the wills of others.’

‘What did you have to do?’

‘The whole caboodle. Bell, book and candle. I mean, at first I took it for first-class tosh, but…whatever it might take to get on, you know? Then it got more serious and I…I saw things. Terrible things. And I wanted out. They seemed disappointed but agreed. I’d thought I was clear of the wretched business. Now I know I’ve been their damned pawn all this time! The question is, now we’re on the same team, what’re we going to do?’

I nodded towards his gun. ‘We
are
on the same team, then?’ I said.

Flarge stood up and his face was grim from beneath his sticking
plaster. ‘We might never be best pals, Box, but we can rub along for as long as it takes to sort out this mess, can’t we?’

I looked the fella over. I’d loathed his very guts for so long it was going to take an effort of will not to knock him down where he stood. At last I got to my feet, put out my hand and Percy Flarge gripped it, firm and almost painfully.

‘Chums?’

‘All right,
old boy
,’ I said. ‘Chums. Now let’s get the hell back to the cottage.’

As we opened the plane door, it was clear the weather was worsening. The day had faded in a riot of crimson and purple but there were huge, fat storm clouds lowering on the horizon. Snow was already falling thickly. We raced from the airstrip and onto the practically deserted streets of Lit-de-Diable as though afraid of the creeping dark.

The wind was roaring down the narrow streets and I’d stopped to catch my breath by a charmingly tumbledown inn when the brick just by my face shattered into fragments. Whirling round, I’d hardly managed to register the shot when another rang out, slicing into the ground at my feet and sending up a great plume of snow.

Flarge–slightly ahead of me–span on his heel and replied in kind over my shoulder. I had a brief flash of receding pork-pie hat in the fading light. Snow was pelting down in a great rushing fall.

‘It’s Reiss-Mueller’s men!’ I hissed.

One of the beggars was right behind me, concealed behind a pale yellow cottage. The location of the other was confirmed at once as his pistol rang out, shattering the window of the inn. Weaponless, I was helpless to respond, but my new ally Flarge was on blistering form, sending round after round our enemies’ way.

We took immediate shelter behind the old market cross but we were hopelessly pinned down. The snow screamed in our faces.

‘What the hell are they playing at?’ snapped Flarge.

‘Damned if I know,’ I shouted. ‘But the world’s gone so corkscrew I half expect to be double-crossed every minute of the day!’

Flarge fired off three shots in rapid succession and was answered by two single bullets from opposite directions. ‘Why would the Met want you dead?’

My mind raced. ‘They could’ve killed me any time. Instead they brought me all the way over here. Why?’

Flarge pulled the trigger again but nothing happened. He slammed the weapon against his palm.

‘Damn it all! Jammed!’ He shot me a defeated look.

‘All out for a duck, old boy?’ I cried.

A bullet whined past, a great splinter of stone erupted from the market cross and the fragments caught me in the eyes. I threw myself to the ground, getting a mouthful of snow and lay there, utterly helpless. Then I lifted my head, eyes stinging and quite unable to get my bearings.

‘Look out!’ cried Flarge.

I tried to clear the snow from my eyes but was only blurrily aware of a figure stepping into my line of sight, the yellow flash of his revolver and a deafening percussion. This was it.

I waited for the bullet to hit me but something very queer happened. I was vaguely aware that the freezing night air had turned yet colder but the wind dropped suddenly and then that awful low depression gripped my guts like a cramp. There was a strange choking gasp from Flarge kneeling at my side.

‘My God, Box,’ he cried. ‘Look!’

Great dusty tears were welling in my eyes, and as I rubbed desperately at them I saw the bullet hovering in the air right by my face.

As I watched incredulously, the damned thing simply faded away. Blinking stupidly, I looked up to see Reiss Mueller’s men gazing down on us in unfeigned shock. Then, as if on cue, Flarge’s pistol made a
little clicking sound. He looked at it, raised it and, in one swift movement, put two bullets into our enemies’ regulation suits.

The Men from the Met crumpled into the snow, wearing looks of complete bewilderment in addition to the new blood-blossom buttonholes in their lapels.

The wind suddenly rose up again like an unstoppered genie.

‘What the deuce happened there?’ squeaked Flarge above the din.

I shook my head. Once again, it seemed some supernatural power had come to my aid. And I didn’t want to dwell on it. ‘Don’t ask,’ I yelled, ‘let’s go!’

We were back at the cottage in minutes but, as soon as I saw the half-open door, I knew something was horribly amiss. Keeping close to the wall, Flarge moved to the worn step and kicked the door fully open. There was no one inside.

Flarge and I exchanged glances and I crossed swiftly to the back door. There was no sign of Delilah.

With a horribly heavy heart, I began to mount the stairs, Flarge following closely behind, revolver cocked. I moved swiftly across the landing and threw open the door to Aggie’s room. Expecting to find her dead, it came as something of a relief to find the bed merely empty, the blanket I’d so carefully pulled over her gently sleeping body wrenched back like the snarling lip of Olympus Mons himself.

Sinking down on the bedspread, the full horror of the situation dawned on me. And I’d promised to keep her safe.

‘What now?’ said Flarge glumly.

‘They’ve got Agnes and they’ve got the Prayer,’ I sighed. ‘What else can we do? We’ve got to get into that castle.’

Outside, the weather had closed in, transforming the night into a howling maelstrom. The sleet-choked wind shrieked through the bare trees and I clutched my leather coat about me as we set off towards the mountain. The cold was simply appalling, snow lashing at our exposed faces like a shower of needles.

Keeping to the Swiss side of the border, we soon cleared the tiny airstrip and found ourselves enveloped by dense forest, trees looming up like soldiers in our flickering flashlight beams. It was fearfully hard going, the drifts underfoot had refrozen and were treacherous, the snow that fell thickly onto our shoulders only added to the slog.

Pretty soon I was spent. Merely keeping from falling on my arse was hard enough, but the trudge upwards soon began to tell on my protesting leg muscles. Neck and face swamped by the upturned sheepskin of the flying-coat’s collar, I strained to see the mountain through the black curtain of the forest. For a very long time, though, there was only the dreary regularity of the snow and the trees.

Then, all at once, a small, rectangular building seemed to spring up out of nowhere and we emerged into a clearing to find ourselves facing the departure point of the cable-car. Flarge and I exchanged glances and then trudged swiftly and noiselessly towards it.

Closer to, I could see that the terminus was divided into two so that, as one carriage arrived another set off upwards in the opposite direction. To my delight, I saw that a car was rapidly approaching.